


The Toymaker

by NavyGreen



Series: Dwarven-Kings and Green Valleys [5]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Baby Frodo, Bilbo Baggins & Bofur Friendship, Bofur is a Sweetheart, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Gold Sickness (Tolkien), M/M, Post-Hobbit, Thorin is a Softie, Uncle Bofur, but for like 2 seconds, thorin stays in the shire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:47:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28652232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NavyGreen/pseuds/NavyGreen
Summary: Bofur, toymaker and already an excellent older relative to his family, visits Thorin, Bilbo, and Frodo in the Shire to wait out the coming winter.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins & Bofur, Bilbo Baggins & Frodo Baggins & Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Bofur & Thorin Oakenshield
Series: Dwarven-Kings and Green Valleys [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1675180
Comments: 10
Kudos: 64





	The Toymaker

Bilbo set down the plates mid-afternoon.

The fire blazed in the corner, cradled by its rounded, red-brick hearth. Its heat chased away any echo of winter chill that had slipped between the loose earth covering Bag End. But the small blaze was only so strong, its dominion stretching only as far as the wooden walls of the smial – and the doorway of the bathroom nearest the master bedroom in the dead of night, unfortunately. Nevertheless, the shared kitchen and dining area was warm, enough so little Frodo only needed his summer blanket spread across his lap, rather than his winter one.

Thorin had made the blanket himself – although not without the firm, guiding hand of Bilbo. Despite the Dwarf’s eye for perfection, it wasn’t perfect – all the holes and double-stitches, despite Bilbo’s teachings, made that quite clear. But Frodo seemed quite infatuated with it. He would wiggle his small fingers into the holes and scrunch the wool in his little palms, giggle at tulips that even the creator could barely see. Though, Frodo was a Hobbit, and Thorin had been lead to believe the peaceful race had a much better eye for such things. Much better than his own.

Now, Frodo had wiggled his fingers through the stitch, and had risen the tulip up to inspect it with a thoughtful eye, much as a blacksmith would an in-progress work. Thorin liked to think Frodo would make quite the blacksmith, if he wished to. Or a silversmith, like his cousin. _Though, perhaps he would be more interested in woodworking?_

A flash of green, a well-loved waistcoat Thorin had become quite acquainted with, pulled away the Dwarf’s eye. He smiled at Bilbo, like a mirror in the light. Bright, and honest.

Bilbo smiled back, just the same, and sat down, fork, knife, and appetite in hand. “Could you pass me the salt-”

_Knock._

A pause.

_Knock-Knock-Knock!_

Thorin pulled his eyes from the salt and looked to Bilbo. The Hobbit had paused, still as a statue, though his eyes burned like a forge. Bilbo’s hand hovered outstretched, though his eyes glanced to the hallway. He squinted

 _Aule bless whoever is at the door_ , Thorin thought. 

“Feed Frodo for me,” Bilbo said as he stood. His chair scrapped against the wooden floorboards in a way that resembled the times the Hobbit had made clear his displeasure with a certain Dwarf for refusing to eat his greens. He had set quite a path for little Frodo to follow. Even during lunch that day, Frodo had squirmed when a tree – _broccoli_ – had been set before him.

Bilbo tugged his waistcoat straight, and disappeared into the hallway with a spine straighter than steel. His feet made no sound on the floorboards, despite their size and Bilbo’s obvious grumpiness. Although Thorin had long been used to the odd talent of his Hobbit, watching it in action never seemed to lessen in its impact to shock his Dwarven heart. Dwarves were stompers, Men were clumsy, and even Elves were not silent. But Hobbits…were as quiet as mice.

Thorin, in comparison, was never able to escape a grumble when he returned to their bed in the dead of the night after a trip to the loo, no matter how slow he traversed the hallways, or how many socks he wore. He had a small suspicion Bilbo knew of the only creaky floorboards. He’d have to look into it.

Bag End’s green, round door opened, squeaking slightly on its hinges.

 _Yavanna bless them_ , Thorin added as he picked up Frodo’s baby spoon. “Say ahhh, ghivashith.”

The Dwarf watched as Frodo closed his mouth around the wooden spoon, eyes glittering in the way all Hobbits seemed to when food was presented to them. His red cheeks puffed, and beneath the blanket his little feet kicked. Thorin reached out and pinched his little toe gently – as if he were handling the softest gold. Though not the same material – he considered them more than equal in worth.

From the doorway, Thorin heard Bilbo gasp.

The Dwarf straightened, fingers slipping free from the blood as his blood chilled. The cavity surrounding his heart sizzled, low and flickering, like a forge freshly cooled.

Thorin spun around his seat and cast his eyes to the archway leading to the hallway. But Bag End’s green door remained hidden from his sight. Instead, a vase stood before him, filled with fresh lilies. “Bilbo-”

The Hobbit’s voice filled the smial like tinkling bells. “Bofur!”

_Bofur?_

A lower voice blended with Bilbo’s laughter, syllabus clipped and elongated in a way that indicated an Ered Luin upbringing. “I know you said not to knock, laddie. But I arrived rather late, and when in the Shire, do as the Hobbits do?”

Metal clinked against metal as the front door locked.

“Oh it’s so good- you must’ve come so far- No! Here, I’ll put this in the study.”

One set of footsteps – heavy heeled and certainly not belonging to a Hobbit – echoed down the hallway until finally, the Hobbit and Dwarf appeared in the archway.

Thorin felt a smile pull at his lips despite his attempts at a scowl. “You _still_ have that hat?”

Bofur stepped the kitchen-dining space and with a gloved hand tipped his cursed, curved hat. “Good to see you, your highness. As mighty as ever, I see.” Then, the Dwarf folded into half a mock bow.

Something in Thorin stomach flipped and he found himself turning away. “I’m not a King-”

“Course not! But your still my leader.” Bofur interrupted, grin wide and toothy.

Bilbo had left the Dwarf’s side, likely to store his pickaxe away somewhere safe and little-Hobbit-proof, but another, younger Baggins had given his attention in return. Frodo’s blue eyes were wide, full of wonder, and one of his small fists had removed itself from his blanket to reach out.

“And this little bairn must be Frodo!”

Bofur stepped closer, perking to attention like a hunting dog. His feet were still booted, laces and outsole flecked with dried mud, and although he traced some dirt into the rug, he had clearly given the curtesy to give his boots a passing wipe on the welcome mat. His clothes did little better - they would’ve been presentable to a passing traveller along the rough roads between settlements, perhaps a little on the side of fancy, but Thorin couldn’t imagine the looks the other Dwarf would have received strolling into the Shire the way he was. He had at least thrown his scarf over his shoulder, instead of letting it droop around his neck.

Thorin paused in his assessment. Perhaps Shire sensibilities were getting to him.

“It is,” he said, thick hand resting on Frodo’s high chair. Something in his chest constricted.

Bofur addressed Frodo with a grin and plopped into the empty seat beside him. “Didn’t know our Burglar had siblings.”

Thorin grimaced. “It’s- it’s complicated. I didn’t want to explain it over letters.”

Bofur flicked his eyes to him, and some sombre understanding dawned behind the layers of grins and laughter. But, like a passing cloud, it disappeared and the Dwarf turned back to Frodo. “I didn’t get to finish that music box you asked of me. No matter, I plan to stay for winter if our Burglar lets me. Lots of time for crafting, huh little burglar?”

Frodo squealed in delight.

* * *

Bilbo, with little surprise, readily accepted Bofur into Bag End.

The Dwarf would be staying a bit down the hall, in one of the many guest bedrooms scattered around Bag End. Unknown to Bofur, his bedroom was the one used for visiting Took and Baggins cousins, instead of other, less managed bedrooms for the odd visitor here and there – not to mention the room reserved to the very rare Sackville-Bagginses, situated as far from the loos and without a hearth. Bofur’s was close enough that, if the Dwarf had any issues, he would have no trouble finding the main bedroom despite Bag End’s winding corridors, something Bilbo audibly protested when brought up. When the Hobbit had disappeared to collect clean bedlinen from a closet Thorin was never able to find regardless of the directions given, the Dwarf pulled the toymaker to the side.

“If you get lost, just follow the consoles-”

“The who?”

“The little tables against the walls-”

“Ahhhh.”

“Follow them and they’ll lead to the front door. From there the hallway with the _blue_ rug-”

“Blue rug, okay.”

“-leads to our bedroom, your bedroom, a bathroom, and Bilbo’s study. If you want to go to the back garden go out the front door, walk round, and climb the fence-”

“What about the backdoor?”

“You’ll get lost trying, so don’t.”

* * *

Having another Dwarf in the smial was… new. But certainly not unwelcome.

Thorin, unlike his Hobbit counterpart, rose late in the mornings. Bilbo liked to say he was a tomcat, liking to doze until early afternoon and stretch in its golden light – even though Thorin never woke after midday. The Dwarf had attempted to wake earlier through cold water, putting six walnuts under his pillow, and even asking Bilbo to wake him when he did. Every attempt had only left him exhausted, and more than reasonably grumpy.

So, it was quite a shock stepping into the hallway of Bag End with bed hair and heavy eyes, the late morning sun crashing through the open curtains, to see Bofur in a similar state. The two Dwarves waved briefly at each other, too tired to attempt much more, before the toymaker shuffled towards the bathroom.

“Must be our stone sense,” Bofur said to him later, over breakfast. “Gets all messed up under this dirt, you know? Thank you Bilbo, these eggs are delicious. Don’t you agree, Frodo?”

Similarly, Thorin found some solace in the Dwarven nuances Bofur exhibited within Bag End. For one, the Dwarf crossed his cutlery when not in his hand, and spoke with food in his mouth – something Bilbo openly criticised, though his tone was always tinted with mirth. Bofur also had trouble with gardening – something Bilbo had insisted he try (“You’re a toymaker! I’m sure those fingers will be great at gardening too!”). Thorin, who had only slightly greened his thumb since his arrival in the Shire, found comfort and humour in Bofur’s attempts. Though the other Dwarf was far more successful at working the good earth than Thorin was, his shock at what lay under the earth gave Thorin a good chuckle and fuelled his inner forge for the rest of the week.

“I’m telling you,” Bofur said to him at the sink, grin wide despite his vigorous attempts to force the dirt from the space under his nails “Turnips are not meant to look like that.”

Another thing the Dwarves shared was their affinity for the night. Bilbo, as did most Hobbits assumably, preferred the day, with its bright light and constant business (how, Thorin could never understand). Hobbits, much like the birds and beasts of the earth, traversed their time under the sun, grew under its rays like flowers, and bloomed. Creatures of Yavanna, they were after all.

Thorin, and indeed most if not all Dwarves, alternatively, found comfort in the night. Though the cycles of the sun and moon meant little to Dwarven folk when they inhabited their mountain, recluse and rare to emerge, their exile, travels, and Thorin’s own eventual habitation of the Shire, with naught but loose dirt to hide under, had found solace and comfort within the darkness that came following the departure of the sun. He could almost image he were under the surface of the earth, with the stars like distant, wall-hung torches, and Aule’s solid embrace around him, protective and sure. Like the echo of a murmur, Thorin could almost image he stood were the Fathers of the Dwarves once did, under the earth, unknown to both sun and moon, with only their Creator to guide them.

Thorin breathed out, felt the fire within him lower, flickering comfortably in a moment of rest. He smiled.

And, of course, during the night no Hobbits were around to test his Hobbit sensibilities. No, instead he could sit on the front bench, look out at the grassy hills, and be at peace.

That is, of course, where Bofur found him.

“Your highness enjoying the night?” he asked from the doorway, a Hobbitish robe pulled around his waist. It was a bit tight around the shoulders, clearly not made for someone with the measurements of a Dwarf, but he didn’t appear to mind. His hat was absent, and his hair was unadorned and unbraided.

“I am,” Thorin replied, turning his eyes back to the fence line. He still needed to repaint it, but it could wait until spring. “Would you like to join me?”

Bofur’s face split into a grin, and he plopped into the empty space beside him.

“Gotta love the night, it’s so… dark. But alive. Like-”

“Underground?”

Bofur closed his eyes, and his shoulders dropped in contentment. He hummed in agreement.

For a few moments there was a comfortable quiet. A memory of the Company sat around the fire, surrounded by trees and weeks from any civilisation, came to Thorin, gentle and non-invasive. He closed his eyes and let it glow in its own luminescence behind his lids. The phantom smell of smoke filled his nose, and he could almost pretend he could feel its heat across his face.

A deep yearning appeared in his gut. A hunger, though not for a good meal.

And although it was uncomfortable, it was not unfamiliar.

“How’s Erebor?” he asked and regretted it almost immediately. The yearning altered, mutated, into something with a metallic sheen.

“Good, good,” Bofur replied, voice whimsical. “The boys are doing well. Fili is really coming into the crown, though Balin and his Mother run the kingdom sometimes. Kili also helps… tries his best. They wish you a happy forge and wonderful forgery.”

A grunt. “I wish them a wonderful harvest.”

Bofur chuckled. “The Hobbits are getting to you. Next you’ll be forgoing shoes.”

Thorin grimaced. A phantom pain, pointed and angular, like a thorn, flickered at his heel. “Not for a while, I hope. Quite like socks.”

The toymaker chuckled in agreement.

Another length of quiet came over them, like the rolling clouds of a chill that came during a late autumn’s evening.

The metallic sheen in Thorin’s gut caught the light, just for a second. Briefly, he wondered how Bofur had spent his share of the treasure at the end of the Quest. Maybe he had melted it down into little buttons, or golden hinges…

Thorin’s eyes opened, and in the night sky all he could see was the darkness of an onyx gemstone. It threatened to swallow him whole.

“’m going to bed,” he muttered suddenly, like a bubble popping in magma. It splattered its hot lines of orange glow across them both, and it sizzled.

Bofur glanced to him, eyes edged with concern. “I- well. Alright, I’ll see you in the mornin’, your highness.”

_Gold- Gold melting and bubbling and glimmering under torchlight. It was all his. The King’s._

“Goodnight,” he managed, forcing the words through the iron bars of his teeth.

The door to Bag End opened without trouble, and his feet stomped down the wooden boards of the smial as he walked without meaning to the bedroom.

_Gold. So much-_

Bilbo grumbled as he entered, brow twitching. However, he did not speak, and settled deeply into the mounds of the bed after a momentary shift.

Moonbeams captured the strands of his hair, a handful at a time, and they shone like silver.

Like wonderful, ageless silver.

If only…

* * *

Thorin avoided any metal for the entirety of the next day.

Silver, brass, whatever gold Bilbo could bear to possess – Thorin would catch one glance, one moment of light catching upon its edge and reflecting-

Excuses. Excuses, excuses, excuses.

_I’m not hungry, my treasure._

_I’m in no mood for gardening-_

_Do we really need to fix the hinge- no one uses it this room._

Each time, a sharp glint cut at his insides, made his throat catch and a hiss roll behind his teeth.

When Thorin had refused breakfast – _second_ breakfast – Bofur had glanced at him, mouth full with eggs and a small Frodo squealing in his lap. Dark brows, typically Dwarven, lowered in a concern Thorin had most commonly seen between the toymaker and his brother, or cousin.

“You alright?” he asked, voice soft.

Thorin, throat thick with cotton – of molten _gold_ – only grunted, and turned away, away from his love, his companion, and all the metal within their reach.

He remained within their bedroom, surrounded by wool and cotton and fabrics, and was held within their gentle embrace, so unlike the cold, rigid touch of metal.

It was within these thoughts, stuffed as though they were a pillow, that Thorin realised he had forgotten to give either of his Hobbits a kiss.

* * *

Bilbo slipped into their bedroom sometime passed noon, plate in hand stacked full with, thankfully, wooden cutlery, carefully tucked into a rolled napkin so only the prongs and smoothed tip peeked out.

That brief moment of relief, however, was rapidly washed away when the reason for the change in cutlery came to land, sloshed and murky, at Thorin’s feet.

“I brought you lunch, dear,” the Hobbit said as he set the plate upon the bedside table. He sat upon the bed, by Thorin’s feet, and looked up at him with-

Thorin _knew_ that look. Not as Thorin Oakenshield, leader of his Company.

But as the King Under the Mountain. And the memory of Bilbo’s concern, lined with fear and tinged with no little amount of guilt, came to him through a sickly golden haze.

A metallic reflection.

“Can I help?”

Soft. Spoken like the dirt sprinkled over a fresh seed, or the texture of a cotton pillow, pinned and sewn and set within the living room. Grass, rising from the earth to greet the watery sun come spring. The fur of a bee, briefly landing upon a calloused hand.

Thorin breathed in, slow, deep. Not rushed.

Like the growing of a seed.

“Hm,” he muttered, eyes momentarily glancing to the sunlight dancing upon the floorboards. The colour of honey. “I’m alright.”

Bilbo nodded, lips tight but pulled into a sweet smile despite their tension. “I’ll go to the carpenter later today.”

Thorin glanced back to his Hobbit, with hair the colour of chestnut and eyes sweeter, deeper than a woodland pond. His small hands, too calloused for a proper Hobbit, took his own gently, and squeezed, gentler.

“You’ll watch Frodo while I’m gone?”

Trust. So much trust it hammered into his heart and made it want to burst, glowing and cracking-

“I will,” the Dwarf replied. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to the Hobbit’s brow.

Bilbo fell against him, and ran his thumb around the metal band encircling Thorin’s finger with a touch reserved for the most delicate garden plants.

* * *

Bilbo left for the carpenter, and the grocer as well after a cursory check of Bag End’s pantries. He left little Frodo, half asleep, in Thorin’s care, who chose to remain within the bedroom. However, it wasn’t long until the other Dwarf inhabiting Bag End came to find them.

“How’s the wee lad?” Bofur asked as he half-closed the bedroom door, voice low and hushed.

To this Frodo barely stirred, tucked up in Thorin lap. His blanket lay over him, and his chubby fingers lay loosely wrapped around the holes, with one small foot poking out at the bottom.

“Well,” Thorin replied as he combed through Frodo’s growing curls. Before he had left, Bilbo had remarked on a future trim. Thorin had barely held in a grimace, be damned all his growing Hobbit sensibilities. Frodo’s hair would look much better braided than chopped.

Bofur, unwilling to disturb the mattress and, in turn, the sleeping Hobbit, pulled an armchair closer and, very carefully, lowered himself into it.

“And you?”

A question, barely hidden, if at all.

“Doing better,” Thorin said truthfully, though the edges of his mind, where his ego now sat, twinged slightly.

Bofur hummed. A hand, nails cleaned and trimmed no doubt due to Bilbo, rose and twirled his moustache. “I’m glad to see you well, Thorin. Never thought you’d find peace in a place like this.”

Thorin found himself agreeing, and frowned in thought. In truth, he wouldn’t have found such… gentleness, to himself and those around him, if the Dwarf sitting upon the bed with a toddler Hobbit within his lap had not yet taken back his birthright, and had suffered the consequences of such a conquest.

No, the old Thorin, a Dwarf of struggle and suffering and such _weight_ had found this place a blight, full of ignorance and weakness, exemplified by its inhabitants.

They had known nothing of the world, he had thought.

But now… bless every higher being for allowing this gentle place and its gentle people to exist within a cruel world. The Hobbits were lucky, blessed by crops and harvest, and their ignorance to an extent. Thorin could not find it within himself, newly forged, to bring any amount of hate towards the Shire (excluding perhaps the spoon-stealing Sackville-Bagginses).

Thorin’s sufferings of fire and metal and empty plates, of pressure and weight and expectations, had only contrasted the Shire more, had revealed to his Dwarven eyes the blessings of its basket, as wide and as deep as any mine.

“And yet I do,” he muttered.

Bofur grinned, toothily. “We are all happy for you.”

“And I for you.”

* * *

Winter deepened. Winter passed. And spring approached.

Thorin knew of it through the ritualistic crossing off of the days of their calendar, and the gradual changing of temperature (Thorin was no soft Dwarf, but even he eventually preferred to tuck his feet into his and Bilbo’s shared blanket).

The Hobbits, however, appeared to not only know of the changes of the seasons, but also understand them. As one the Hobbit populace, Bilbo and Frodo included, temporarily dimmed as the snows reached their height, like plants that received just a bit less water than necessary. While they did not lose their spark, their inner heat, the two moved less, slept more, and ate extraordinary amounts.

For Frodo, this was normal. A growing boy required sleep, and food.

But Bilbo...

Thorin brought up his Hobbit’s strange bouts of wakefulness during the dead of the night, when he held Sting close to his chest and an ear turned towards the door, eyes glued to the window, only once.

 _I am here for you,_ he had murmured. Snow fell outside, deafening the world outside, cocooning them within the embrace of warm, red curtains. _It will not happen again._

After that, he disturbed Bilbo no more. Though, he was glad to see the Hobbit’s waking hours during the night became less, and his sleep became heavier, and longer. Soon enough, neither woke during their long stretches of sleep (unless Bilbo hoarded the blanket and Thorin was left to search Bag End’s chill hallways for the blanket closet).

During the ending days of winter, Bilbo received wrapped parcels upon his door, tied with bows and small written notes. Throughout the following week, metal cutlery was replaced with wooden replicas, as were the doorknobs, and any other metallic items possible for the transfer. While Thorin would have to stare at the brass kettle each cold morning, wooden fork in hand, he found its (and any other left over, necessary metal items) allure significantly diminished. And he was a _Dwarf_ , he could handle a mere kettle.

As spring approached, the dwellers of a peaceful Shire came to fullness, like trees bearing fruit and the beasts emerging from their extended sleep. Bilbo and Frodo rose earlier (despite Thorin’s grumbles), remained awake for longer, and participated in more activities. Bilbo planned his springtime planting, and little Frodo, small, precious Frodo, learnt to crawl across Bag End’s warmed floors.

Thorin, a strong, hardy Dwarf of Durin’s folk, did _not_ cry.

By the second week of spring, according to the Shire calendar, Bofur’s small possessions were packed, with only his common-day necessities remaining within his room – including his hat.

He announced his leave within the next week, depending on the weather, and neither Dwarf failed to catch Bilbo’s deflated mood.

A flower plucked from the earth and set within the confines of a filled vase. Alive, certainly, but diminished.

Thus, Thorin spoke not of the increase of personal time between the toymaker and his Hobbit. Instead, he would occupy Frodo (eyes firmly planted on him now that the boy would crawl away and hide within a cupboard within a few short moments), and try his best at making small nibbles for them as they spoke.

Frodo, of course, knew not of Bofur’s approaching departure. Until the time came one spring’s blooming morn.

“It’s alright wee lad,” the toymaker said, bobbing Frodo upon his hip. The small Hobbit, cheeks red and puffed, sobbed into the Dwarf’s shirt. His tears darkened the cloth in irregular patches. “I’ll be back – and in the meantime you can play with your toys!”

Indeed, winter had found Bofur extremely productive, and a sack filled with small wooden toys sat by the dining table. Horses, Dwarven soldiers, and a few trolls could be seen peeking out from the sacks’ top lip. Thorin had a sneaking suspicion that it held Elves, Orcs, and a scaled-down dragon, too. He’d have a look later.

“Speaking of,” Bofur said. Thorin turned his eyes towards him.

With little Hobbit held on his hip, Bofur swung his travel bag around his shoulder and shoved his arm inside. The fabric of the bag pulsed and creased before his hand retreated and-

“A music box,” Bilbo breathed, before saying more solidly, “oh Bofur!”

“A little something to keep the little gem occupied,” the Dwarf grinned. He handed the box over to Bilbo. “Requires a little bit of a wind up.”

The box, rectangular and the size of Bilbo’s two hands, was a truly marvellous piece of work. The pale wood of birch had been glossed and carefully carved to follow the grain. The corners had been cut and sanded down into gentle curves, appropriate for the softness of Hobbit’s hands, especially that of a curious toddler. Along the length, darkened designs of squat Dwarven figures stood against a pale sky; one with a silly hat, another with a sword, and a smaller, bootless one, that didn’t look much like a Dwarf at all, standing at the back of the group, situated right below the latch.

Bilbo slid it open with the pad of his thumb, the smooth copper as silent as its two companion hinges.

There was a slight pause as they all watched a small, red-stained wooden dragon spin upon a metal pedestal. Its wings, a collection of finely crafted pieces stitched together with wire, spread wide. Its maw, full of painted teeth, fell open.

And a sweet melody began to play.

Bilbo smiled, wide and unbelievably precious-

“Oh Bofur, this is wonder-” The Hobbit paused, smile dropping into a scowl, though its corners were tinged with a playful tilt. “ _That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates?”_

“ _Blunt the Knives_ , actually,” Bofur corrected with a twirl of his moustache. He shifted Frodo on his hip. “Wee lad loves it!”

Indeed, Frodo’s eyes shined with joy, wide and as reflective as a forest pool. He reached up.

“It’s good work,” Thorin said as he took Frodo and held him against his chest. A small hand wrapped itself into his beard. “We appreciate it. And you visiting, Bofur.”

The toymaker swung his bag back onto his back and smiled at the other Dwarf. The skin at the corner of his eyes crinkled, and something that glittered appeared in his eyes.

“We all miss you, Thorin,” he said. “But we are glad you’re happy.”

Thorin swallowed. Something hard was lodged in his throat, like wood, or a bird’s nest in a chimney.

“Bofur…” Bilbo murmured.

An air fell over the three. It lay around their shoulders as thick as an early spring morning, during the few minutes of dawn in which the frost clinging to the green grass of the Shire melted and clung, instead, to the air.

Bilbo blinked, and glanced to him. “Could Bofur and I…?”

Thorin looked upon his Hobbit’s face and understood its fine lines, its delicate curves of emotion and particular glint. He understood it as he would understand the call of a hawk. Unintelligible, truly, but he understood.

He nodded. “I’ll be in the living room. Bofur-” He reached out, clasped the Dwarf’s arm, and gently brought their brows together. “Until we meet again, lukhudel.”

“Until then, to you and the mizimith.”

Thorin nodded, smile tainted with the sadness of the ending a wilting rose, and walked inside with Frodo resting against his shoulder, leaving his Hobbit and friend on the porch.

* * *

“He was my first friend,” Bilbo said much later, after the sun had risen and fallen, and the darkness reminiscent of the cradle of a mountain settled over the Shire.

The two sat by the fire. The Hobbit sat in his father’s chair, limbs heavy and eyes downcast. A pipe, snuffed but still smoking in a weakened aftermath, its last legs, rested against the arm. A few grey ashes laid lightly against the worn, green fabric.

Bilbo didn’t brush them away.

A pause. Comfortable, but heavy.

“Of the company?” Thorin spoke after a few more thick moments.

The Dwarf wouldn’t have been entirely surprised. Bofur could befriend and Orc, if he wished. A Hobbit far from his homely hills was an easy catch.

But Bilbo only hummed, neutral.

“I’ll miss him.”

Thorin grunted in agreement, low and quiet.

The Hobbit tilted his head, eyes still downcast but his chestnut lashes unusually dark, to glance at their son. Frodo laid between their feet, onyx lashes resting against his cheeks. A blanket lay over him – one of Bilbo’s own design, not missing a single stitch.

Slowly, as if he feared to break the moment that surrounded them if he moved to fast, Bilbo took the music box from the floor and with gentle fingers, wound it up.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Some translations:  
> Ghivashith – Treasure that is Young  
> Lukhudel – Light of All Lights  
> Mizimith – Jewel that is Young


End file.
